


Be Nice to Me

by this_too_shall_pass



Series: DC Playlist [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Canon-Typical Injuries, Gen, Light Angst, bruce is just mentioned, dick is a dick, hey can we talk about the child soldier real quick, jason and bruce are not homies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27441850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_too_shall_pass/pseuds/this_too_shall_pass
Summary: Jason is many things, but tired and angry are the most important.(or: Jason, Dick, and what makes a person not a hero)
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Series: DC Playlist [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2004841
Comments: 7
Kudos: 106





	Be Nice to Me

It’s the same song and dance every time, and much as they both hate it, neither wants to step away first.

Bruce calls Jason in for an all-hands-on-deck, Jason doesn’t kill, Bruce decides that means he can get to him, he can’t, cue blowup argument, cue silence, rinse and repeat and recycle.

It’s just happened again.

The man Jason killed was a monster. A killer of 30, a mob enforcer hired for his apparent enjoyment of the job. Jason had known him, once. When he was on the streets, the man had been a teenager a few years older than him, who tipped over beggar’s collection boxes and gave him his first cigarette. His name was Leonardo Cadenza. Jason will never forget his name. He will never forget the names of anyone he’s killed.

He gets them tattooed- in UV ink, because goddamnit even when he tries to forget Bruce with the pain of the needle, the no-identifying-marks rule still rings in his head, and it’s all he can ever do to keep the swimming green pool in his head from flooding on the parlor chair.

It’s not a joyful experience, it’s not a celebration like Zsasz’s scars. It’s a reminder. He bears it so no one else has to. He kills the abusive husband so the wife doesn’t have to. 

If thinking of himself as a martyr is what it takes to deal with being a killer, he’ll call himself a goddamn saint, fuckin’ sue him.

Bruce definitely doesn’t see it that way. He sees the blood on Jason’s hands and not the curl of the dead man’s fist. Every man and woman that the Red Hood kills is exonerated in Batman’s eyes. They have to be. Batman, for all his perceived darkness, sees too much black and white. If he admitted the world was better without some of its residents, he’d have to see shades of grey.

He has to ignore his own shade of grey.

So. Jason, Bruce, and their fists on a rooftop in Robbinsville. Bruce won because of course he did. He always does. 

The door to his apartment has three locks on it, and all the windows are glued shut. It’s safe for him. Everywhere else, he’s in danger of one of them cornering him, talking to him like he’s a beloved pet who caught rabies. Disappointed and pitying and afraid.

But Jason isn’t Old Yeller, he’s the goddamn Red Hood, and he’s kind of in his right mind, and he sure as shit doesn’t need anyone’s pity. 

He’s on fire all the damn time, and a water gun isn’t gonna fix it.

He opens the door slowly, hindered by his injuries. It’s a good thing that he isn’t Bruce’s son anymore, he thinks, because beating your son black and blue and broken is highly frowned upon in most vigilante circles.

The apartment is dark and shitty. Being Red Hood doesn’t pay much better than the construction job he works during the day. The neighbors are friendly but not prying. When he first moved in, there’d been a couple arguing downstairs every night, but about a month later there’d been the sound of glass breaking and a scream, and after that Red Hood had taken care of it.

The woman lives there alone, now, and any extra cash he has goes to her to help with her rent.

The bathroom is as crap as everything else. A single light, a shower that barely fits his 200+ pound frame, a chipped sink, and a toilet that makes very suspicious sounds. The poor lighting illuminates his injuries as he strips off his helmet and jacket.

Even without removing his body armor, he can see he looks terrible. He logs the beginnings of a shiner on his left eye, pain in his right wrist that’s probably a fracture, a bruised rib or two, and blood in his hair. Shit, that could be a head injury. Best to shower so he can get a better look after. If it is, then that’ll be ugly. Head wounds always take way too long to heal, and his helmet is not particularly comfortable.

The water is cold, as it always is. His landlady, a 6’0 Hispanic boxer who reminds him a little too much of Artemis, had just glowered at him when he’d asked about hot water, and League training or not, he knows when to back off. He prefers cold anyway.

He washes with a military air, pointedly not looking down. He prefers not to linger on his injuries unless he has to. Focusing on pain is a luxury that has long been trained out of him.

Once he’s clean, he can see that the blood in his hair is from a cut on his forehead. Good. Not great, but no one comes out of a fight with Batman feeling great. 

The sweats he changes into are soft and well-worn, one of the first things he’d bought after he came back. The actual first thing he’d bought was his leather jacket, which he’d seen in a thrift store and immediately gotten. He wears it outside of the hood, too, because it’s warm and authentic and the best thing he owns. Once, when he’d first started living in Gotham, a thug with a knife tore it. He’d come home and found his closet emptied in retaliation.

Luckily, the goon was about Jason’s size, so even if his wardrobe had tended towards the grimy, Jason’s closet doubled.

There’s not much in his tiny kitchen, but before he’d stomped out of the Manor, Alfred slipped him a 20. He hates it, hates the pity, hates that Alfred sees right through him, but goddamnit he can use that money for a pizza that’ll keep him fed for at least today and tomorrow, more if he stretches it.

The chilidog stand outside feeds Jason for free since he saved the guy from a thief, but he can’t eat the guy out of business, so he only goes there once or twice a week. He’ll go there for lunch tomorrow instead of the pizza, and then the next day he’ll flirt with the waitress at the sandwich shop near his construction site to try and get a discount. She’s sweet, blushes when he asks her name, and if he was a better man he’d feel bad about using her.

The pizza he orders is as big as he can afford with as many toppings as he can get. He doesn’t like olives, but his stomach will thank him even if his tongue doesn’t.

The pizza won’t arrive for a good twenty minutes, so Jason sets a timer on his outdated Android and crashes on his ratty couch. He can use all the sleep he can get.

Seventeen minutes and a new crick in his back later, a knock wakes him up. He shoots up off the couch and stumbles over to the door, grabbing the twenty and a pistol. He undoes the htree locks with practiced speed, ready to end this interaction as quickly as possible.

Considering that the door opens to reveal Dick Grayson, that probably isn’t happening. 

He quickly schools his features to hide his panic, but his mind is already racing. He’d been so careful, so fucking careful. Driven halfway across the city, stopped his motorcycle at a League base a few blocks over to throw off the scent even. But they found him, goddamnit. And it’s Dick of all people, Dick who can’t keep a secret for anyone but Bruce.

Dick lifts a pizza in his hands. He probably paid off the pizza guy to let him take it. Good. Jason wouldn’t have been able to tip the guy, so that at least is for the best.

He leans over to grab the pizza, but Dick catches his wrist.

“You want the pizza, we talk.” Jason weighs his odds quickly. He hasn’t paid, so he can order another pizza. But Dick is a stubborn fucker, and he probably won’t go away. His windows are still glued, so he only has one entrance. Stupid, he’d known it was stupid, but he told himself it was worth it for the security. Fat fuckin’ bunch of good that did him. 

Eyes narrowed, he puts his gun on the floor and opens the door fully.

“I ain’t sharin’, if that’s your hope.” Dick, as per usual, takes that as an invitation to make the space his own, shrugging off the hoodie he’d been wearing and dropping it on the couch. Even from the doorway, Jason can see that it’s practically new, and of good quality. If Dick is trying to blend in, he’s failing.

“So, Jason-” 

“How’d you find this place?” It’s the first question that pops into his head. He’s already figuring how quickly he can find a new place to live. His lease isn’t up yet, but it will be in three months, and then he can move. There’s a place in the Bowery he’s had his eye on as a go-spot since he moved here, the rent will be higher but it’s closer to the build site. Shit, the build site. How much does Dick know? Does he know where Jason works? Dick shrugs.

“I was patrolling Newtown when B called me. Said you both got into it, and you ran off. He figured you must have been in Crime Alley, so he asked me to find and tail you. Jesus, Jay, this is a crappy safehouse, you couldn’t have run to a nicer place?” Good. Not great, but good. He doesn’t know anything. He thinks it’s a safehouse. He doesn’t know this is Jason’s home. 

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I try to run away, Dickiebird. Note to self: make sure to hde from the Bats in a place Dickhead will like.” Good. Throw him off. Make it seem like this isn’t it, like you have apartments everywhere. Like you have money for more safehouses. He can do this. Dick sighs.

“Fine. What happened, Little Wing? Bruce sounded like he’d been hurt, what did you do to him?” 

“Aw, Dickie, no concern for little Jason? No ‘how are you’, no ‘how was fighting Batman hand-to-hand’, all you want to know is what I did to him?” He’s pushing buttons, he knows he is, because Dick doesn’t like his mistakes pointed out and now he’s sitting in front of his biggest mistake ever. Besides maybe the Discowing costume. Dick’s face remains neutral, but he puts his hand through his hair, which means he’s frustrated.

“I hate to say it, Jay, but that’s on you. You killed someone, you know what that does to Bruce. It’s wrong, and you shouldn’t provoke him like that. Starting a fight-” Jason laughs at that. It’s a bitter laugh, angry.

“You think I started this, Dickface? You think I decided to hit Batman first? Not a chance. I’m crazy, not suicidal. No, this-,” he gestures to his bruised face,”Bruce did this, and he threw the first punch. He found me, and he started the fight.” 

“That’s impossible. You know Bruce, he never did anything to you that you didn’t start. Stop trying to get me to resent B, Jay. You know I worked all of that out years ago.” 

“You forget that Bruce got me killed, Dickface.” That visibly confuses Dick. Of course it does. Dick is Bruce’s first, Dick is the one who made Robin.

“What are you talking about, Jaybird? You know what happened, it was the Joker.” 

“And why did the Joker care about me, huh? Why was I more than a street alley kid?” Jason sees the moment it clicks for Dick, sees the exact moment he picks up on what Jason’s saying. Then he gets mad. Of course he does.

“You wanted Robin! You were the one who made it a legacy, you begged Bruce for it! You did that to yourself!” And that. That sets Jason the fuck off. Green swims behind his eyes, but Jason is injured. He won’t win a fight between them. Instead, he goes for words, aimed to hurt.

“I was a child, Dick. I was twelve goddamned years old and I was damned near starving, and everything has a price, so I assumed that wearin’ the stoplight was the cost for having a full stomach. You wanna put that on me, you hafta put the same logic on everyone else. Timmy’s little brush with Mr. Oz was his own fault, your little identity slip was your fault, the demon brat’s period bein’ a sword kabob was on him.” Dick looks like he’s been slapped in the face, but Jason can’t stop. “It’s not on me, asshole. It’s on your dear old fucking dad for giving a nine year old a pair of sticks and pitting him against the fucking Joker and it’s on him for not stopping when I died and it’s on him for being Batman in the fucking first place.” Jason knows he fucked up a few times, but it feels good to admit. This isn’t his fault. He didn’t die because of his own mistakes, he died because of Batman. Because of Robin. Robin was a death sentence, and everyone else are the ones pretending otherwise.

“Jason, I-” Dick looks even more stricken, but he knows it won’t last.

“Run back to Daddy, Dickhead. Run back so he can tell you that you wanted this, that all of us want this. He’ll tell you that, you know he will, and you all can keep pretending that a thirteen year old should be face-to-face with monsters.” 

Dick must know that he can’t win this, that he needs time to respond to such an accusation, because he stammers out a goodbye and leaves, slamming the door behind him and practically tripping over himself to get out. 

Jason exhales deeply and collapses on the couch. It felt good to say that, to let out the thoughts that cycle in his head when he sees his costume in the Batcave, but it was still tiring, and Jason’s already exhausted. He thinks he can afford to skip work tomorrow, but he isn’t sure,, so he compromises and texts his boss that he won’t be in until lunch tomorrow.

He quickly scarfs down two slices of his pizza and puts the rest in his fridge. 

It’s time he gets some rest.

**Author's Note:**

> hey so, thanks for reading :) all feedback is appreciated. was a lil worried about dialogue but i think my prose makes up for it :))
> 
> based on be nice to me by the front bottoms, which i think makes a lot of sense for jay and bruces relationship :)
> 
> Be Nice To Me: https://youtu.be/QhcAJC_3heA


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